


freudian slip

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [13]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Medical Examination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: Chris needs a simple medical exam. It becomes more complicated than that.





	freudian slip

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who've read "the way our horizons meet," this story takes place somewhere in the middle of Chapter 12 - after the Damma II incident, but before Chris relinquishes command of the Lovell.

The sound of the toilet flushing in the adjacent cabin woke Phil from a sound sleep. He blinked a couple of times, disoriented, before his eyes met the clock by his bed – it was 0312.

 _That’s the fourth time tonight_ , he thought to himself with a sleepy frown before justifying it to himself. _Whatever; he probably just had too much coffee today._ He rolled over, settled back down, and fell back asleep, putting it out of his mind.

But it happened the next night, too. And the night after that. And after that.

After four nights of multiple _whoosh_ es coming from next door, the nagging sense of medical duty overrode the awkwardness of a conversation to begin with the phrase _I notice you’ve been peeing a lot more than you should_ , and he sent a private text comm to the bridge.

_C – Stop by medbay after your shift, would you? Couple medical questions for you. – P._

And that is how, at 1900 hours that evening, Captain Christopher Pike came to be knocking on the doorframe of Phil’s office.

“You rang?” Chris singsonged, smirking a little bit, and Phil forcefully tried to ignore the little clench in his chest at the laugh lines that appeared next to Chris’ eyes. He looked tired, a little bit sweaty – which made the ends of his hair curl up adorably – and kind of pale, and goddammit if Phil didn’t still think him the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I did,” Phil affirmed, nodding to the door, which Chris shut before folding his arms and leaning against the far wall of Phil’s office, a long line of black and command gold. Phil folded his arms too, mirroring Chris’ posture, and leaned back in his chair, and the best friends smiled congenially at one another.

“You’ve been peeing a lot,” Phil said without blinking.

Chris raised his eyebrows. “I. Um. What?”

“You’ve been peeing a lot,” Phil repeated patiently. “More than usual and more than I think is healthy.”

Chris blinked rapidly, a pretty flush blooming on his cheeks. “How…uh…how would you know something like that?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Your bathroom’s on a shared wall between our quarters. I hear _all.”_  

“Well…well…” Chris stammered, “I’m not the only person in my quarters. How do you know it’s not my wife who’s peeing a lot instead of me?”

Phil shook his head. _Oh, Christopher._ “Well, for starters, Becca was in here day before yesterday for an analgesic for her back, and nothing showed up on her scans that would cause frequent urination – no UTIs, no STDs, and you’ll be happy to know, no PREGs. _You,_ on the other hand, I haven’t scanned in months. Course, there’s also the fact that Becca wouldn’t be a cagey bastard about being honest with her doctor about a medical issue, so.”

Chris sighed in that very Chris way of his and hung his head. _Guilty._ “Fine. You win. Ass.”

Phil pushed a chair out for Chris with his foot and Chris sank into it, posture slumped like a pouting adolescent. Phil just pulled up his medical record on a PADD, as if he didn’t have the damn thing memorized by now.

“All right. How long’s it been going on?”

Chris shrugged and did not make eye contact. “Maybe a week?” 

“Does it hurt?”

Chris flushed again. “Maybe a little,” he mumbled.

That meant _like hell._ Phil softened his gaze a little, tilting his head to the side. “Anything else going on? Other symptoms?”

Chris visibly swallowed. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbled. “I’m tired. And I…um.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “And you, um…?”

“Uh…”

_“Chris.”_

Chris averted his eyes and swallowed again.

Phil sighed. “Does it hurt when you come?”

Chris turned crimson, then nodded.

Phil turned his eyes ever-so-briefly heavenward, then nodded. “Okay. Mind if I scan you?”

Chris shrugged mildly and fell back limply in his chair. “Go for it.” 

Phil ran the tricorder over Chris’ frame. Mildly elevated temperature, blood pressure fine but heart rate a little up, elevated white count with left shift, no elevated PSA…yeah, this was all adding up.

“Well, the good news is you’re not dying,” Phil said dryly. “The bad news is that I’d bet money on this being an infection in your prostate.”

Chris looked up. “My _prostate?_ I’m thirty-nine, not sixty.”

Phil tossed his tricorder down on the desk and sat on the edge of it, facing Chris. “You’re a little young for prostate troubles, it’s true, but it’s hardly unheard of. You’d need an exam to be sure, but if that’s all it is, it’s easily treated.”

Chris paled three shades. “An exam?”

Phil gave a small, wan smile, then shrugged. “It’s your call, Chris; you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“The hell I don’t,” Chris said dejectedly, leaning his forehead down and pressing it against the clear aluminum of Phil’s desk. “I really feel bad, Phil.”

Phil took a deep breath and patted Chris on the shoulder. He felt warm. “Would it be easier for you if someone other than me did it? I can ask Ravenna – ”

Chris actually laughed at that. “You think I’m going to let a _different person_ stick a finger up my ass?”

Phil pursed his lips to keep from laughing and held up his hands. “Just giving you choices.”

Chris sighed, looked at Phil so directly that it almost made Phil look away, and shook his head. “Gotta be you.” He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, speaking on an exhale. “Okay. Okay. Prostate exam. _God,”_ he intoned. “Let’s…let’s get this over with." 

~

“This is definitely one of the weirder experiences you and I have had together as friends,” Chris muttered as Phil activated the privacy screen around the biobed.

Phil turned around and looked incredulously at Chris. “Oh, sure,” he deadpanned. “I’ve officiated your wedding, I’ve physically massaged your heart until it started beating again, you’ve bailed me out of jail three times, and we got in a fistfight together the first week we knew one another, but this, a completely routine physical exam – this takes the cake.”

Privately, Phil agreed with Chris, but only insofar as there had been no ethics courses in med school about performing such a delicate physical exam of an exquisitely sensitive part of the body on one’s best friend with whom one is secretly in love. He was glad Chris wasn’t facing him to watch him bite his bottom lip like this; it was _hell_ trying to reconcile the Chris that was in front of him right now, ill and needing medical attention, with Fantasy Chris, who’d stalked Phil in his dreams for twenty years with pouty lips and a firm ass begging for attention. 

_Shut up and focus. Clinical attention only._

“All right,” Phil managed, “drop your pants and lean on the biobed on your elbows.”

Phil heard a zipper and nearly bit his lip clean through.

“At least buy me dinner first,” Chris quipped. Phil could have kicked him; instead, he just snapped on a pair of gloves a little more enthusiastically than he otherwise might have, just to redirect some of his red blood cells away from his crotch.

Phil turned around and… _oh Christ, I can’t do this._

Chris’ ass was a fucking work of art. Perfectly round and firm, but with obviously soft skin; and Phil’s fingers and lips and tongue all _itched_ to touch and taste and explore.

_Stop it._

Jesus, it looked like the very ripest peach in the bunch, juicy and begging for a bite… 

_**Philip.** Clinical._

“Am I in the right position?”

He was so beautiful; Phil would bet he could make Chris feel so good, take him to unimaginable levels of pleasure… 

“Phil?”

_GODDAMMIT, FOCUS. You’re a doctor, not a horny adolescent._

“You’re just fine,” Phil answered in a voice that sounded funny even to him. He cleared his throat, swallowing very hard, and took a step closer. He unsnapped the tube of surgical lube in the drawer next to him, squirted some on to his fingers, and rubbed them together for a little bit longer than he should have, trying to just control his racing heart rate.

_Chris is sick. Do what you need to do to make him better. Now._

“You’re going to feel me touch you now,” Phil said as soothingly as he could; there was still a heartbeat in his voice. “Just on the outside. Nothing going in yet. I promise.”

Chris nodded. From his vantage point, Phil could see Chris’ right hand ball up into a fist right below his captain’s stripes.

“Try to relax,” Phil urged. “It’s just me.”

A tiny bit of tension bled out of Chris’ frame, though the breath he exhaled was a little tremulous.

“Normal breaths,” Phil said gently, one finger pressing against the tight furl of Chris’ anus. “Slow and deep.” He was talking as much to himself as he was to his best friend. He heard Chris swallow, then said as nonchalantly as he could manage, “I’m gonna start pressing in now.”

“Okay.” Chris’ voice was uncharacteristically small.

“You tell me right away if I hurt you.”

Chris nodded tightly.

Phil took a deep breath and pressed inside Chris’ body as gently as he possibly could. Both of Chris’ fists balled back up on the biobed and the tiny whimper he let out was the absolute _prettiest_ sound Phil had ever heard; between that and the tight perfect silkiness on his fingertip, Phil would’ve given anything – _anything_ – to just say _fuck it_ and lose himself completely in Chris.

It was only the strength of his medical ethics, insistently yelling in his mind to _focus on your patient,_ that kept him from doing so.

“Try not to tense, Chris,” Phil said softly. “Am I hurting you?”

Chris shook his head vigorously, trying to catch his breath. “Just…” he breathed, “just…weird.”

Phil swallowed hard. “Let’s try to get this over with then, shall we?” He pressed a little deeper, desperately trying to get his erection to calm down when Chris gave a little moan and squirmed, and then made contact with Chris’ – warm, but rather mildly swollen – prostate.

 _“Fuck!”_ Chris yelled loud enough to make Phil grateful for soundproof privacy screens. Chris’ hands started furiously grappling for something to grab onto; he finally settled on the opposite edge of the biobed and white-knuckled it.

“Hurts?” Phil asked, trying to gentle his touch. His mind was working rapid-fire overtime, trying all at once to clinically process what his finger was perceiving – _reasonably normal dimensions, only modestly swollen, a little heat, obviously tender_ – and keep from losing every bit of objectivity in his body and leaning down and press a line of wet kisses along the long line of Chris’ spine.

“Phil,” Chris choked, gasping for breath, “Phil, I – Phil, _Phil!”_

Chris let out a long, low moan, and under it, Phil could hear the unmistakable sound of wetness splattering against the rubber-silver polymer covering the biobed, and it was easy enough to put two and two together.

Other than the sound of Chris’ panicked gasps and the roaring of Phil’s pulse in his ears, it got very quiet very fast in the exam room after that. Phil gently and slowly removed his finger from Chris’ ass – which at this point seemed appropriate – and stripped off his gloves. He looked back to Chris’ form, frozen, bent over the biobed, pants around his ankles, little faint tremors racking his body from stem to stern. “Chris…” he began.

“Oh my god,” Chris muttered shakily, “oh my god.”

“Chris, listen to me – ”

“Oh _fuck,”_ Chris spat, pushing himself up unsteadily and yanking his pants back up, looking everywhere but at Phil.

“This is _not a big deal,”_ Phil lied with all his heart. “This happens. It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay.”

 _“Okay,”_ Chris scoffed. “You…”

At that moment, Chris stepped away from the biobed just enough that both of them could see the gleaming splotches of white where Chris had come.

 _“Fuck,”_ Chris cried again, zipping up. Phil tried desperately to look at Chris’ face, which was now beet red, but Chris wouldn’t look up.

“Chris, look at me, please,” Phil pleaded one last time, but it was for naught. Chris brushed by Phil and raced out of the exam room, leaving Phil staring after him, hurting, achingly hard, and not insignificantly hating himself. 

_You made Chris come._

_You made your_ patient _come._

_But you made Chris come._

_But you made your patient uncomfortable._

_But you made Chris come._

_But you made Chris uncomfortable._

_But you weren’t trying to._

_But you did. You made your very straight, very married, very best friend come while he was your patient._

Phil tossed his head back against the wall of the exam room, sank slowly to the floor, and buried his head in his hands.

~

A medical tech showed up at Chris’ quarters early the following morning carrying a hypospray and a PADD requesting thumbprint access, which Chris granted.

“Mild prostatitis,” it said. “Administer this antibiotic, double your water intake (that means _water_ , not coffee), and no sex for forty-eight hours. You’ll be fine. – P.”

Chris momentarily but desperately wished for the Lovell to suffer a hull breach that would suck him into the vacuum of space. When none came, he depressed the hypo into the skin above his jugular and did as he was told.

~

Chris and Phil didn’t speak for three days, and it was hell. 

Phil had tried to comm him three times on the first day, but all of his comms had gone unanswered. Chris did not drop in to Phil’s medbay office with that smirk of his or show up at his door with a couple of beers or drape himself all over Phil’s couch and whine about his half-Vulcan 2IC’s surprisingly mercurial moods. There was a massive Chris-shaped hole in Phil’s life, and it made him feel small and lonely and heartbroken.

But Chris was embarrassed, and when Chris was embarrassed Chris went full isolationist, and Phil was powerless to stop that.

It was funny in a completely unfunny sort of way, Phil reflected, lying in bed on Day #2 without contact with Chris. He had always thought that, if he ever had occasion to see Chris climax at his, Phil’s, hand, that it would be a memory on which he’d look back with joy, not with sadness and shame and regret. But here they were, fractured and bleeding, with Phil meditating for the billionth time how goddamn complicated it was to love one’s best friend so very madly and not be able to touch. (Except the other night, when he definitely did touch.)

Phil rolled his head to the side. He could hear Chris brushing his teeth on the other side of the shared wall. He squeezed his eyes shut.

~ 

Chris came home to his quarters – no, no; Chris _stomped_ home to his quarters – after an interminably long shift of one goddamn thing after another. Physically, he was feeling miraculously better; the antibiotics, abstinence, and hydration did the trick in days. Psychologically, however, he was a snarly, moody mess.

Becca, working at her terminal with a heat pad strapped to her back, smiled up at him when he came in. “How was your day?”

Chris answered by way of grunting, then walked over and dropped a kiss on his wife’s head to soften the sting. “Your back still bugging you?”

“A little,” she said. “Last time I ever try to attempt a downward dog without Phil correcting my posture.”

Chris ignored the spike in his adrenaline when she said Phil’s name - never mind the images that _downward dog_ put into his head - and an awkward pause hovered in the air. “Are you, ah, hungry?” he said, pathetically trying to change the subject.

“What’s going on with you and Phil?” Becca asked in her no-bullshit voice.

Chris sighed, slumping against the wall next to the replicator. “We had…kind of a fight?” he answered, making it sound far more like a question than it should have. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, it always is, in the Pike-Boyce dyad,” Becca responded dryly. “Honey, whatever this _fight_ is – ” she used audible air quotes and it annoyed Chris “ – it’s not worth the loss of your oldest and closest friendship.” Chris broke eye contact with Becca and started fiddling with the hem of his command tunic, an old nervous tic, but Becca continued. “You have a bond with that man that nobody can get inside of, not even me. He’s irreplaceable in your life. Look at you, Chris: you’ve gone three days without talking to him and you’re moody, you’re not sleeping, and half your crew’s afraid of you.” She paused for effect. “And you’re lonely. And you’re sad. And so is he.”

Tears did not come easily to Chris, but in that moment he felt the telltale urge to cry welling up, because she was _right_. He pursed his lips hard against it.

Becca stood, cupped Chris’ face, and brought it up, forcing him to look at her. “Go make up with Phil, please. Tonight. Now. For the sake of both of you. Whatever this is, put it in the past and move on.”

And that is how, at 2100 hours that evening, Captain Christopher Pike came to be chiming for entry at the door to Phil Boyce’s quarters. When Phil opened the door, Chris stood, slouched against one wall, looking sheepish as all hell but making eye contact, which was a dramatic improvement. Now _Phil_ was the one feeling the urge to cry.

Chris held up two longnecks in one hand. “My wife told me to come have pizza and beer with you.”

Phil looked softly at Chris, smiled for the first time in days, and stepped aside to let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAME OVER ME, EITHER. And yes, I know there are probably plenty of twenty-third century technologies that mean that digital prostate exams are no longer necessary, but for god's sake, humor me! :D


End file.
